


Romances sans Paroles

by tb_ll57



Series: Concept Variables [2]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Near Future, post - endless waltz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tb_ll57/pseuds/tb_ll57
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Heero does not see wisdom in this idea.  But he says nothing.  He's done foolish things before, after all.  Quatre is entitled to a few mistakes.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Romances sans Paroles

'Do you suppose,' Quatre says.

Heero shreds the last of his baguette for a particularly aggressive pigeon, tossing it far from their bench and getting a flurry of wings in reply. 'What am I supposing.'

'Paris,' Quatre says. Quatre sprawls with pointy elbows on the wooden bench behind them, his sandaled feet kicked wide on the grass. 'Paris,' Quatre repeats, and tips his head back, eyes closed in the sun. 'Heero.'

It's a fine day, one of the finest of the long summer. The breeze is cool, the sun is bright and warm, and the city is awash in tourists. Their daily search for hide-aways takes them further and further from the city, to the run-down gardens on the outer Seine, the smaller cemeteries with no famous graves, the local flea markets along Rue de Paul in the Marais. Heero's temper is usually tolerant, but even he is starting to lose his humour as the crowds force them more and more away from home.

Quatre heaves a deep sudden sigh. ' _Le bourdon,_ ' he says.

Heero glances at him. 'Bumblebee?'

There are new lines by Quatre's eyes that he doesn't think were there, during the war. They deepen as Quatre laughs softly. ' _Avoir le bourdon,_ ' he says, and his fingers come down on Heero's nape, sorting ever so gently through the long hairs on his neck. 'To have the blues. To be grumpy. I'm missing a piece of myself and I haven't any idea where I've misplaced it. Do you ever feel like that?'

'No,' he answers truthfully. 'Why do you feel that way?'

'Don't know.' Quatre does this in bed, sometimes, these slow and thoughtful touches. Heero turns his head for it, and Quatre presses a smile against his jaw. 'Never mind me,' Quatre murmurs then. 'Let's take Clara out somewhere nice tonight. I want to wear fine clothes and go dancing. Will you dance with me? Relena told me you're a good dancer.'

'I don't think either of us have nice clothes.'

'That's a good point. Bother.' Quatre peels his wallet from his pocket, and flaps it at Heero. 'Empty. We would have had to dance on the street anyway.'

'We can find work.'

'We'll have to, eventually.' Quatre seems at peace with this idea, accepting Heero's decision. They've had this conversation before, and will again, but he doesn't push it. They're past the days when Quatre would disappear on his self-assigned quest to find meaning in whatever it was he did when he went searching for himself, but Paris hasn't yet released its hold on him. Whether it ever will, Heero doesn't know. He hopes. In Paris time, which might mean days, and might mean a year. But he hopes, and he never quite convinces himself to top asking.

'Let's go to Africa,' he whispers, and feels Quatre smile against his neck. 'Open a clinic. Patrol an animal reserve. Rescue baby elephants.'

'Baby elephants?' Quatre chortles. 'Did you toss that in just to snag my interest? Wee baby creatures with big vulnerable doe eyes?'

'Elephant eyes. They have long eyelashes. Like yours.'

'Heero.' Quatre takes his hand, takes his jaw with one slim finger. Heero obligingly leans down for the kiss waiting for him. 'Heero--'

'Oi, faggot!'

Heero looks up crossly, but Quatre restrains him from rising. 'Ignore it. Tourists.'

'Hey, Blondie.' A boy, maybe eighteen, or just a little older. Grinning with the kind of perfect, blindingly white teeth that bespeak money and private education. The flashy coat and expensive haircut are secondary clues, but the thing that really sells it is the way the boy focuses solely on Quatre as if he's got radar for social equality. Heero never warrants a glance. 'It is you!' the boy says. 'The fuck you doing in Paris, Winner?'

'Marcus,' Quatre says, and the tone in his voice, wary and resigned in one, is the proverbial nail in the coffin. 'Hullo. It's been a long time.'

'Forever, mate.' Heero finds himself shoved aside. Quatre grimaces an apology as they are forced to share their bench with the interloper. Marcus, whoever Marcus is, throws an arm over Quatre's shoulders, then just as quickly releases him to grab at Quatre's cigarettes, hanging out of his jeans' pocket. 'Thanks, in total withdrawal. Where've you been, really? You disappeared, what, years ago. I heard about--' A ten second pause, filled with the snick of a match on sandpaper. 'Disinheritance,' Marcus says, and blows a stream of smoke in Heero's direction.

'Yes,' Quatre replies politely, and ignores it. 'You must be graduated by now?'

'End of May. We're on Tour, of course, a lot of us-- well, you too, then? Is that why you're here? We should talk, man, we should really talk. Hey-- come drinking with us? I'm just on my way to meet the lot of them. Some of our old classmates, be glad to see you. And your friend,' Marcus adds, considerately granting Heero the great treat of his attention. However briefly. 'That why they booted you? Always figured you for a nancy. You'd never see me go broke for a bloke.'

'How are your parents?' Quatre asks. 'They live in town, don't they?'

'Yeah, Mum has the house here. She'll probably go back to L4, I reckon, after the funeral. Hey, Blondie, you should come to that, too. Dad always did like you, didn't he? I'm sure he'd've loved to have you round to pay your respects.' Marcus sucks hard on the cigarette, and flicks it away to the grass. 'Can you imagine dying in Paris in summertime? My old man was a buzzkill all the way to the end.'

 

**

 

'You're really going?'

'The double-breasted,' Clara says.

'It's not old-fashioned?' Quatre hangs it back, and reaches for the pin-stripe on the rack to the left. 'Too fashion-forward, that. It looks well on you, Heero.'

'Am I going too, then?' Heero hangs the coat, and catches Quatre's hand. 'Is it really appropriate for us to go to a stranger's funeral?'

'Marcus, unfortunately, is not a stranger. His parents were good to me when I was young.' Quatre slips away with a squeeze, and frowns over ties instead. 'We've a long history with the Duchesnes. Our families go back generations on L4. It wouldn't be proper not to go.' Quatre holds up a tie in sombre lavender, and Heero shrugs.

'Not for me, for you.'

'Then definitely no.'

'The slate,' Clara says, and passes it to Heero. 'And the pinstripe does look good on you. Quatre, the double-breasted and the cream shirt. You always look best in a classic cut.'

Quatre doesn't answer. He's adding. His fingers rub the price tags. 'I can pay for mine,' Heero begins.

'No, it's my fault you even need to buy a suit.' Quatre worries at his lower lip, and reluctantly hangs back the shirt. 'Clara, can you reach that white one instead? That one.'

Quatre never talks about money. Heero doesn't know if it's because he doesn't want to remind himself of what he gave up, or if it's just that instinct Quatre has toward gentlemanly behaviour, never drawing attention to subjects that raise discomfort. There's usually enough for coffee and croissants at the cafés, and Heero is technically still a guest, not a paying renter, but he doesn't know how much of that is Quatre and how much is Clara.

Quatre pays with a credit card, and Heero folds his bagged suit over his arm. Clara tousles his hair. 'Oh,' Clara says then, 'you had mail this morning. Where did I put-- here.' She unearths a thick envelop from the depths of her purse. Heero takes it, turns it over, but the stamp is generic for mail within Europe and there is no return address. It's not until he finds the faded pink stamp of 'UNC' that he knows what it is. A letter from Relena, cleared by her security for mailing to a man who used to be in daily contact with the Princess and now qualifies for background checks. He's not angry, to realise that, but it seems like a silly thing, so typical of bureaucracy. Of Preventers. Emblematic of why he left Sanq. And emblematic of something else he can't quite put his finger on. But it feels like intrusion. Intrusion on this quiet life he's been living here in Paris, these last four months. No restrictions, no difficulties, no hard decisions to be made. No-one from their lives before, no-one to remind them of things they've walked away from.

They order the _plat du jour_ at a brasserie near the shop, and Clara has wine brought out for each of them. Quatre props a cigarette between his lips and sits back with eyes closed, face away from the mid-day traffic. Heero pushes his croque-monsieur aside, and opens Relena's letter. It's several pages of her pretty hand-written script, a newsy accounting of events in Sanq and Parliament. Dear Heero, it reads, and the paragraphs are peppered with phrases like 'I miss talking to you at night' and 'Do you remember that spot in the garden we found?' and 'I hope you're finding what you were looking for'. Heero looks at Quatre, at the sun playing off Quatre's bright hair and making shadows on the open throat of his shirt, and thinks of how Relena's hands were soft and manicured, and Quatre's are rough-knuckled and ragged in the fingernails, and he doesn't know. He doesn't know if he was looking for a person, doesn't know if he will stay because of Quatre, doesn't even know if Quatre wants him to, the way Relena did.

'Where are they living now, Quattie?' Clara asks. 'The Duchesnes.'

'Left Bank,' Quatre says, and comes to life like a marionette, taking the cigarette from his mouth and tapping off the ash. He sips his wine, spears a baked clam on his fork and twirls it. 'Somewhere in Quartier Saint-Thomas d'Aquin. Massive place, if Marcus is to be believed.'

'Isn't he the one who--'

'Yes,' Quatre confirms. He eats his clam, and explains to Heero, 'He's a horrid bully, truthfully. He beat another boy with a cricket bat, the year I left school. Gossip put the settlement in the millions. They were going to expel him, but Mr Duchesne donated a new law library, so...'

Heero folds Relena's letter. 'He doesn't sound like much of a friend.'

'Marcus hasn't got friends, he's got toadies.' A bit of fun begins to creep in at the edges, mischief and humour that are more familiar to Quatre's eyes than bumblebees and blues. 'They'll be in tears over you. You couldn't pretend to take that nonsense seriously if you tried. They'll spend all night trying to impress you, and it will drive them mad.'

'I can blend in any atmosphere,' Heero defends himself.

Clara snorts into her wine, but Quatre laughs outright. 'No, Heero,' he says. 'You really can't. But it will do them good to realise not everyone falls over for money. Quite good.'

 

**

 

'Good lord,' Quatre says, sounding rather taken aback.

Heero silently agrees. Homes in Paris don't get much more impressive than this. It's a proper mansion, modestly nestled in Paris' most exclusive, most expensive neighbourhood. It rises a stately seven levels above the street, with wide balconies covered in shade plants and baroque ironwork. Tall rose bushes grow in tailored arcs to head-height, discreetly hiding the first storey windows from inquisitive eyes on the street. The Eiffel Tower is visible as a hazed obelisk spearing the twilight sky at the end of the avenue. Triple-digit cars glide up the street around them, rolling to graceful stops to eject a constant stream of Parisian elites. Heero recognises a pair of well-known actors, an Ambassador and a Parliamentarian, even Marie Ostheimer, the city's famous opera singer. That all in the time it takes he and Quatre to walk from the métro station to the street.

Quatre tugs at the windsor knot of his tie, touch the cuffs of his sleeves. They make plain figures next to these kind of people, Heero knows, and wonders if Quatre is embarrassed. Maybe not. When Quatre smiles at him, suddenly, it's with all the same quiet confidence, and a touch of self-aware irony that Heero likes. He lets Quatre lead the way up the steps.

There's a blank-faced attendant just inside the door, collecting superfluous summer overcoats. Neither Quatre nor Heero have one, and manage to glide past without disturbance. The house is as impressive inside as out. The floors they walk on are parquet hardwood, polished to a high sheen that glows honey in the light of crystal chandeliers. Along a wall made entirely of interlocking mirrored tiles, there's a short queue for a guest book, and Quatre nods him toward it. Quatre signs both their names, quick scratches of the fountain pen that make perfectly formed letters. The pen leaves a smudge of black on Quatre's middle finger. Heero doesn't tell him.

The crowd is moving toward the second storey, and they climb the wide curving staircase with their shoulders brushing on each step. Luxurious sitting rooms to either side of the stairwell are filled with milling mourners. Uniformed servers float between groups carrying golden trays of liquor and hors d'oeuvres. Quatre takes two crystal snifters of cognac, and drinks his immediately. Heero savours his slowly, hoping for a short evening that will end quickly.

'Was your home like this?' he asks Quatre finally.

'No.' Quatre laughs softly. 'No. If it had been, I'd probably be the same monster Marcus is. We had a grand house, I suppose, but I almost never lived there. Father sent me to boarding when I was five, and there were always summer academies or relatives during holidays. Father didn't believe in pampering children. I thought him cold at the time, but perhaps he did me a great favour with that attitude.'

'Blondie!' It's Marcus, visibly drunk. 'What a day, mate.'

'I'm sorry for your loss,' Quatre tells him, utterly sincere. 'Could I get you anything? Would you sit for a moment?' Shabby or not, it only takes one look for Quatre to summon a server, who hurries off for water and food. Marcus collapses backward onto a stiff-looking Italian chaise, and Quatre pats his knee as he sits beside him. Heero finds a tall bookcase to lean against, near enough to listen, far enough away to watch the rest of the crowd. They are drawing sideways glances.

'Lot of fuss for nothing,' Marcus declares. 'And who the fuck are all these people? Dig a hole and be done with it, that's what I say.'

Quatre smoothly switches the flask Marcus is opening for a devilled egg topped with caviar. Marcus is chewing before he knows he's been had. 'Wanted to introduce you around,' Marcus says around his mouthful, 'but can't find those tossers. Kaj is here somewhere, you remember him, and Brusset. Or supposed to be. Don't know if they'll be here. Said they would. Running late.'

Heero knows these kinds of people. They crowded Sanq, they festered in those schools of young people. They wouldn't come to a funeral, not if there were fun to be had elsewhere. He can feel just a sliver of pity for Marcus, who might never have realised before just how fair weather his friends were until he needed them and found them absent.

'I'm sure they'll be here soon.' Quatre puts a canape in Marcus' waving hand, and it navigates to his mouth before he can ramble on more. 'Why don't you show us the balcony? It's a bit warm in here, I'd like some fresh air.'

'Can breathe just fine here. Pass that scotch, yeah? Shame to let it go to waste.'

'All I've got is water,' Quatre says, straight-faced. But Marcus is not so drunk he doesn't see past that, and he laughs so loudly that heads turn again.

'You always think you know what's best, don't you. You haven't changed at all, mate.' Marcus wipes his fingers on his fine coat. 'You seen the cellar? Let's get pissed. Old man's certainly not going to care, is he?' He chokes on his own laughter, leaning tipsily into Quatre's shoulder. 'Shit, you're just like the old man. He always did like you better anyway. Who knows? Maybe the rumours are true, and you are his after all--'

'Quatre,' Heero interrupts. He nods toward the closed door to his right. 'I think that's a private study.'

'Good.' Quatre heaves, and Heero grabs a limp arm to help, and between them they get Marcus on his feet. The door opens when Heero turns the knob, and he fumbles in the dark for a light switch. A Tiffany stained glass lamp comes on, spraying the small room with topaz and agate and ruby. Quatre points to the leather couch, and they get Marcus laid out on it. Marcus protests all the way down, until Quatre firmly tells him to stay. 'Drink your water,' Quatre says, and stands over him to watch him do it.

'Marcus?'

It's a woman, middle-aged, with weary shadows under her eyes. She wears black like everyone else, but the silk armband around her left bicep marks her as family. The wife. She sees the state of her son, and closes the door behind her.

'Thank you,' she tells Quatre and Heero in accented English. 'He's been-- disturbed by the day's proceedings. It was kind of you to find him some private space.'

'Of course.' Quatre takes her extended hand, and presses it between both of his. 'Madame Duchesne. I'm so sorry to see you again under such circumstances.'

'Thank you, Monsieur...'

'Winner. Quatre Winner.'

'Quatre!' She manages a smile. 'Why, I didn't recognise you at all. You've grown so much. And your hair is so long now!' She touches it, curling near his jawline, and Quatre ducks his head with a little blush. 'But I didn't know you were in Paris.'

'Yes, Madame. May I introduce Heero Yuy?'

'Heero.' There are people who do know that name, with the war two years and more behind them now. Her eyes are wide, and her hand trembles just a little as she extends it. Heero bows over it, as correctly as he had done to any ambassador or lady at court. 'Thank you for coming,' she says, stumbling on the words.

'I'm sorry to hear about your husband,' he replies.

'It is a great shock.' Marcus avoids her eyes when she looks to him for support. She sighs softly.

'Heero,' Quatre murmurs, 'perhaps you could get a plate for Madame? I'm sure she hasn't had time to eat yet.'

'I must see to our guests--'

'I can do that.' Quatre taps Marcus on the shoulder, and liberates his nicer jacket. He changes it for his own, and buttons it over his shirt. 'I've had some experience in this, Madame. You'll be glad later for a little food in your belly and a moment of quiet. Give yourself a half hour and you'll be back on your feet.'

'I shouldn't,' Madame Duchesne begins, but her bitten lip surrenders. She eyes the door with tired loathing. 'Just a few minutes,' she agrees, and sinks down to the chair Quatre holds for her.

'Carbs,' Quatre advises Heero, as they exit the study and close it tightly against curious gazes. 'She needs energy. And see if you can find her a coffee, with plenty of cream.'

Heero's hopes for a short night are disappearing rapidly. He had not planned on having to host someone else's funeral party. 'Quatre--'

'Please.' Quatre says it simply, a request, not a command. His hand curves at Heero's elbow. 'We'll do this and then we'll go. I promise.'

Heero surrenders with no more willpower than Madame Duchesne. Quatre has a way of doing that to him.

A startled server escorts him to the kitchen and helps him make plates for both the lady of the house and her drunken son, who revives enough to meekly eat his meal when Heero shoves it under his nose. Heero passes Quatre in the hall on his quest to find coffee, and he stands a minute to watch Quatre's effortless graciousness with people. Quatre shakes hands, discusses weather and politics in one breath, seriously accepts condolences on behalf of the family, and dispatches people in bunches of three and four to evenly fill all the public rooms. He even directs the caterers to focus on wine, not liquor, with a low-voiced wish to avoid a city full of hangovers. No-one looking at Quatre would suspect he's not exactly where he's supposed to be.

Madame Duchesne seems a little less frail after her own meal, and lets Heero settle her on the window seat with a plush pillow at her back. Her dark hair loosens in its tight chignon, as Heero pours her coffee into a delicate porcelain cup. ' _Merci,_ ' she thanks him absently, her eyes on the sky outside going inky with nightfall. Then she looks up at him, touches his arm. Obediently he sits, drawing the chair to her side. Marcus is drooping over his crudites, and doesn't look.

'You must forgive me my surprise at seeing you here,' Madame Duchesne tells him quietly. 'You see, I do know who you are.'

'Yes, Madame.'

'My husband and I were supporters of the Rebellion.' Her gaze goes back to the window, but to the stars now, just beginning to glow overhead. 'Only in that we gave money. We both wanted to do more, but... my husband was so exposed in the government, and both Alliance and OZ did terrible things to supporters. If they had known we were funnelling funds... my son...'

Heero says nothing to that. He has never cared one way or another whether people supported or rejected the Rebellion-- funding had never been his worry. When there had been money, the Rebellion had thrived. When there had not been money, when Alliance had arrested or removed those who supplied the Rebels with aid, he had still fought on. Sons fought and died if they believed, and those who did not believe enough said the right things to the right people and lived.

'We knew Quatre was involved. He was a sweet boy,' she said abruptly. 'I was close friends with his mother, before she died. Quatre is so very like her. It devastated his father, when Quatre joined the Rebellion. But it didn't surprise anyone who knew him. He made us all want to do more. And for him to come today, what a kindness. Ranier was so proud of him.'

Suddenly Marcus is on his feet. 'Fuck,' Marcus says, and laughs incongruously. 'It's a load of shit, Mum,' he says. 'Fucking shit.' The plate clatters to the floor, scattering crumbs, and Marcus stumbles on it in his path to the door. He's gone before Heero can decide whether or not to stop him.

There's a long silence, then. Heero checks his watch. Quatre's been gone almost an hour, now, and Heero guesses that they won't be leaving any time soon. He excuses himself to Madame Duchesne and her miserable son, and goes to look for Quatre.

'Marcus is missing,' he says, when he finally tracks Quatre to the foyer, in stilted conversation with a morbidly obese man and his off-puttingly skinny wife.

Quatre takes the offered escape, and they step back to a corner. 'Where did he go?' Quatre asks.

'I don't know. I was talking to his mother and he went out. I don't see him anywhere.'

'Damn.' Quatre sucks both cheeks in, the face he makes when he's deciding something difficult. 'Leave him,' he says at last. 'He's grieving. It won't be pretty, but there's only so much trouble he can get in here.'

'Grieving.' Heero doesn't think so. Acting out. Spoilt rich children do that, not men their age.

'I have some experience at that, too,' Quatre says, and his smile is a spasm that doesn't reach his eyes. 'I don't suppose it does make much sense, from the outside. You can't make your father love you, and you think you can live with that, til suddenly he's gone. Poor Marcus.'

'What do you want me to do now?'

'Now?' Quatre looks around, evaluating. 'You don't mind? Just a little longer.'

'I don't mind.'

'Heero.' Quatre kisses him without warning, a soft and brief touch of his lips. 'Thank you.'

This, Heero thinks, as Quatre leaves to greet another couple, is probably what a relationship looks like, from the outside. Whether it makes sense, he doesn't know.

 

**

 

People don't start to leave until well after ten. Heero takes his cue from Quatre, and walks from couple to couple, politely thanking them for coming and reminding them to pick up their coats before they go. The servers are making a methodic sweep of each room, scooping up dirty plates and used glasses, and when he passes the kitchen he finds them already loading their equipment. Madame Duchesne stands by the door and shakes hands with all her guests. Heero is exhausted, and so she must be ten times worse, but her shoulders are straight and her expression composed, so that no-one would ever think her strained. Quatre looks exactly the same way.

When the door shuts at long last, no-one quite dares to breathe. Quatre is the first to break, with a little helpless laugh. 'My goodness,' he says.

Madame Duchesne presses a hand to her mouth. 'How awful,' she agrees. Heero isn't sure what's so funny, but he's glad they both seem lighter with the house empty.

'We should go, too,' he says. 'It's late.'

' _Bien sûr._ ' Madame Duchesne takes his hand, but then just turns his wrist for his watch. 'You have a car? Let me walk you out.'

'No car. We'll take the métro.' Quatre sheds Marcus' jacket and drapes it over a carved chair beside him.

'You are that far away? But the métro will be closed.'

'We can take a cab.' Quatre's wallet is empty and Heero's isn't much better, but there's no way they can walk the entire city at night. Maybe Clara can have cash ready, if they call for her to leave it out.

'No, please. Stay the night here. I have plenty of room.'

'We can't impose,' Quatre demurs. 'Thank you for the kind offer.'

'Impose? After all you did today? Please do stay. It is the least I can do for you. We'll eat in the morning and then the métro will be running again for you.' Quatre meets Heero's eyes as she speaks, eyebrows raised tentatively, and Heero can only offer a shrug. 'Come, you must,' Madame Duchesne says, and that is that.

There's one last hurdle, and after everything else, this is the one that strikes Heero as most absurd. They climb the stairs in a little huddle, they and the lady, and on the fifth storey she opens a door and introduces the guest suite, by saying, 'Heero, will this do for you? There should be spare clothes there in the closet; please use them.'

Only for Heero. She either hasn't realised he and Quatre came in a pair, or it's a subtle hint. Quatre presses his lips together to hold in a smile, when Heero looks at him. I'll come to you, Quatre mouths, and grins at him behind her back.

'Thank you,' Heero tells her evenly. 'I'm sure I'll be comfortable.'

His rooms at Sanq Palace hadn't been quite this nice. Shut inside them, he wanders through a small sitting room with a fireplace, a large bath with a full-size tub and separate shower cubicle, and a well-appointed bedroom with a mattress that could have fit three of him. There are indeed sets of clothes in the closet, including an assortment of sleeping clothes, all smelling like fresh linen and wrapped in ironed ribbons. Heero chooses a set of soft cotton trousers and leaves his new suit folded on bench in front of the bed. He showers, just a quick scrub with the bar of soap, to ease tense muscles and to wash the evening away. He kicks the heavy duvet out of his way and lays atop the sheets, staring at the plaster ceiling.

It's nearly two hours before he hears the scratch at the door. Quatre. Quatre has the same pyjamas he does, and slippers as well. 'She wanted to talk for a bit,' he tells Heero, looking hagard and worn now in the privacy of the dark. 'I'm sorry. Nothing really went as planned.'

'It's all right.' He scoots over, and Quatre slips onto the bed beside him, catching the light as he climbs. At first they just lie side by side, but then Quatre rolls and puts his head on Heero's shoulder, sticks his ankle between Heero's feet. Quatre's finger makes a trail down his sternum.

'He was young,' Quatre says presently. 'Mr Duchesne. Only fifty.'

Fifty seems old enough to Heero. He thinks perhaps his view is biased. 'Did you know them very well?'

'Not really. A little.' Quatre's thumb starts its journey again, starting from the dip in Heero's collarbone and tracking downward. 'During the war, when I had to self-destruct Sandrock... I don't know entirely the how of it, but a medical ship picked me up. It was my sister, Iraia. She brought me back to L4, hoping I would reconcile with Father. We never did. We fought the same old argument... I used one of our factories to build Wing Zero. We were losing the war, we would lose, if we didn't have the Gundams. The Gundams were the only thing standing between Oz and a conquered Space. I couldn't make him believe that. He cut me off from the family money, but I had a trust, one that was just mine, and I used that until it was dry, and I needed more. Mr Duchesne gave me the money to finish Zero. It was common practise, those days, to hide money away from Alliance, in case they decided to come after you. He had millions secreted away, and he gave it all to me. It was an enormous risk for him. And in the end it did get him caught. Oz were already watching him, and they followed the money back to Winner Enterprises. I think that's why they tried to seize our mining satellite. They didn't know if it was me or Father, or maybe none of us at all, but they knew what metals and resources we'd need to build a Gundam, and they tried to cut us off. And Father-- Father went out there to stop them, and it should have been just a stupid thing, a protest by a Pacifist, an arrest at most...'

But OZ had been a good deal more serious about its goals than Alliance, and they'd shot Kadar Winner out of orbit instead of arresting him. And Quatre had used Zero to avenge himself.

'Do you miss it?' Heero asks him.

'Miss what? This life?' Quatre's hand falls flat on Heero's breast, over his heart. 'No. I don't. Money is terrible, Heero. At first, after the war, I tried to change things at home. It's too hard. Money is like-- money is like a spider's web. The more you try to get out of it, the more it wraps you up. All the things I wanted to do, all the things money should enable you to do, those are the same things money stops you doing. When I realised I'd never be able to change anything there, I left. I don't regret it.'

'That's what you meant,' Heero muses, thinking his way through it. 'About the money being a bubble.'

'And it makes you forget who you are without it. That's what I want. I want to know who I am without being Quatre Winner.'

He thinks of Quatre in that borrowed jacket, talking to all those people who must have thought a Winner made a very fine addition to the event. Quatre fits in that world, except for not liking it. But he thinks too of how Quatre said Heero doesn't take it seriously, and he thinks Quatre is like him in that. And it shows. Quatre doesn't let anything hold him back, and that's his strength.

'I want to fly an airplane,' he says.

'An airplane?' Quatre sits up on an elbow to look down at him. His thumb follows the line of Heero's jaw, now, until his fingers thread through Heero's hair.

'I want to fly,' he says, 'until I forget there was such a thing as a Gundam, forget I ever flew anything that was only made to kill.'

Quatre touches Heero's lips. He touches with his thumb, and then with his own mouth. Heero closes his eyes against the moonlight. Quatre kisses his face, his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, and then he kisses Heero's neck, and then his chest, and then he slowly pulls down Heero's trousers to kiss his hips. Heero puts his arm over his eyes, puts his hand to the cool wall behind him, to stop himself from moving more. He feels Quatre's tongue in his navel, licking down his belly to stir the hair of his groin. He lifts his leg when Quatre nudges at him, and Quatre's hand on him is followed by his mouth. Heero has to force himself to breathe. Then Quatre sits up, climbs over him, naked and limned with gold, framed by the window behind his back. Heero pushes him over, rolls him flat on the bed, bends him double, and Quatre hisses his name when Heero enters him.

 

**

 

He hears the first thump in his dreams, but the second one wakes him fully. He opens his eyes, blind as they adjust slowly, and listens without knowing what he's listening for.

There. Thump.

'Damn,' Quatre says. 'Marcus.'

They dress quickly, and Heero is out the door first, into the dark hallway. The thumping is from below, and he hears a voice, too, shouting obscured by the floors between them. He and Quatre hurry down the stairs, reaching for lamps as they go, trying to trace the noise. Quatre's the one who turns to the kitchen, but Heero is the one who bypasses the aisles of sinks and stoves and locates the cellar door.

'Oh, Marcus,' Quatre says, and crouches between shattered bottles and puddles of wine. 'Marcus, look at me. Look up. Are you all right?'

'He's drunk,' Heero observes, and counts at least four bottles emptied on the floor, more in shards.

'I've been drunk. This is plastered.' Quatre tries to get Marcus to follow his finger, but Marcus is well beyond that. He breathes in deep laboured gasps, barely able to lift his head. There's vomit on his shirtfront. 'Heero, help me--'

Heero moves without waiting for the rest of that. He grabs Marcus by the armpits, and Quatre lifts him by the legs. Together they squeeze him through the door and back into the kitchen, just in time to bend him over a sink. 'He's cold and clammy,' Heero says.

'Phone.'

'In my suit upstairs.' He swivels as much as he can while holding Marcus, and nods at the landline he spies on the wall. 'There.'

Quatre leaves him with the deadweight, and dials while staring back as Marcus retches again. 'Emergency services,' he tells the receiver. ' _Oui_. My friend is very drunk. I think he has alcohol poisoning. Yes-- yes, in the 7th arrondissement--'

Marcus is back to wheezing. Heero flips on the faucet, to rinse away the smell of his sick, and uses his palm to wipe away the mess on Marcus' mouth. He splashes Marcus with water when it's warm enough, but Marcus only shudders, too numb to react.

'They're coming.' Quatre hangs up. 'I'm going to get Madame. Lay him on his side so he won't choke. I'll be right back.'

'Right.' Marcus isn't unconscious, at least, but the boy's head rolls when Heero lowers him to the cold floor, and he giggles airlessly, his face falling into sluggish folds. Heero firmly holds his head in place so he can't move it.

Madame Duchesne barely has time to reach her son before the doorbell is being rung. Quatre brings in the paramedics, and then the kitchen is too crowded for so many people. He and Quatre retreat to the cellar door, watching the scene. Madame Duchesne doesn't cry, but her eyes are bright with unshed tears, and she hugs her thin dressing gown to her chest as the medics move her son to a carry cot, and strap him down for transport.

Quatre darts out ahead of the medics, and is waiting by the front door with a hastily gathered bag of clothes for Madame Duchesne. He kneels to help her with her shoes as the medics load Marcus into the ambulance, and wraps the woman in a coat and scarf against the dawn fog. 'Quatre,' she says, her voice trembling, and Quatre kisses her cheek.

'We'll be right behind you,' he tells her. 'Don't worry. They'll take care of him.'

And then they're all gone, and the house is utterly silent.

'God,' Quatre says, and that seems to be all that needs saying about that.

By mutual agreement they first clean the kitchen, Heero sweeping the glass out of the cellar and Quatre mopping up the mess. It's only half four, when they climb the stairs back to Heero's bedroom. Quatre returns to his own suite to find his clothes, while Heero showers again, and combs his hair flat. Quatre is damp, too, when he returns. 'We should stop for food,' Quatre suggests mutedly. 'Hospital cantines won't have anything this early.'

One more trip to the kitchen, for the leftovers from the funeral. Heero eats tarragon chicken skewers, Quatre takes the soggy baguettes with radish and anchovy, and then they stand waiting for the water to boil for coffee. Quatre's eyes are puffy, and Heero's feel sandy and itchy. They didn't have enough sleep for this.

'You should go home, if you want,' Quatre says. 'This is starting to be just a little much.'

'A little.' He takes Quatre's hand. 'You don't have to go. To the hospital.'

'Maybe not. But she'll want someone with her.'

Heero does not see wisdom in this idea. But he says nothing. He's done foolish things before, after all. Quatre is entitled to a few mistakes.

 

**

 

Two weeks after the funeral, Quatre surprises Heero by handing him brochures over their morning coffee.

'Real estate?' Heero asks, paging through them. 'Apartments.'

'Clara will never boot us out, but the flat's starting to get crowded, now that Etienne is spending the weekends here. I thought we might start looking.' Quatre collects grinds from his coffee with the edge of a spoon. 'If you want to keep living with me, at any rate.'

Paris apartments are not Africa. Paris apartments are permanent residences. He doesn't know what to make of this half-offer. 'All right,' he says, vague enough an agreement. Looking doesn't mean anything, yet.

Quatre seems brighter, though, hearing that. 'I've been thinking about work, as well. Paid work. Madame Duchesne thinks I could tutor in music or maths. She knows a lot of families with young children; she's offered to put my name about.'

'So you want to stay in Paris.'

'Don't know.' The line between Quatre's brows etches deeper, and his lips move for a moment without sound. 'I suppose I'm thinking of options. I'd like to stay a little longer, at least.'

Because Madame Duchesne has decided to stay through winter. Clara mentioned that, the night before. Quatre has seen her daily since the funeral.

'Morning, darlings.' It's Clara, appearing in the kitchen with tin foil stacked on her head and reeking of hair dye. 'Pay me no mind. Just here for coffee.' She has earbuds in, and music pours out loud enough to be heard even over her cheerful shout.

'I had another letter from Relena.' It's folded in Heero's pocket. He takes it out, lets Quatre have it. 'She sends her greetings.'

'How is she?' Quatre only glances at the letter, reads a few lines-- Quatre is too polite to spy, even with permission. 'She seems a bit lonely.'

'I think so.'

Quatre looks up at his tone. 'You want to see her,' he says, and has no tone at all.

Heero nods uncomfortably. 'When I left, I said it wasn't leaving her. Just Sanq.'

'I see.' Quatre takes great care with the folds of the letter. 'You should, then. Now's the time. Parliament is closed til September. You'd have time with her.'

He'd thought Quatre would offer to come with him. 'Then I might stay there until then. September.' Three weeks, not quite.

'You should.'

He doesn't know how to read Quatre when he does things like this. 'All right. Okay.'

'Do you want more coffee? Pass me the press, Clara.'

Heero says, 'You drink too much coffee.'

Quatre stops with his hand extended. He drops it to the table instead. His fingers tap, twice, and still.

'Remember to pack your coat,' Quatre says then. 'It's colder in Sanq than here.' He dumps out his cup in the sink, and leaves without looking back.

Clara's lips are pursed. Heero looks away from her. 'Bumblebees,' he mutters.

Her eyebrows rise. 'I hope you don't mind my saying, dear, but you missed the mark on that one.'

Heero rubs his eyes. 'Thanks.'

 

**

 

Relena is thrilled to see him, and Heero thinks he is a little thrilled to see her, too. He is glad that she didn't change with him gone; he hadn't known he was worried about that, but when she comes running to his taxi and holds him close in her arms, he feels something unwind inside, and even holds her back.

She kisses him on both cheeks, and lets him go. 'You look tan,' she tells him, delighted. 'I see that Paris agrees with you.'

'I'm all right. Are you?'

'Except for missing you.' There's a man to take his bags, and a Preventer in plainclothes to stand there watching the man take his bags, but Relena ignores all of that with the aplomb of someone who's become used to having her every move examined by multiple eyes. She links her arm with Heero's, and they cross the coral drive to the steps of the Palace. Mansion, Heero thinks, remembering those grand houses in Paris, and liking Sanq all the more for not being so self-consciously noble. It suits Relena. Special, but still modern and unpretentious.

'How's Quatre?' Relena asks him, as they walk to her favourite room, the library in the east wing. 'I'm glad he was there for you.'

'He says he has the blues,' Heero tells her honestly. Or maybe, he can admit, he tells her because it's made him grumpy, too. Quatre had said good-bye, of course, but hadn't seen him out to the airport or even to the street. Quatre had just stayed there sitting in the garden, smoking a cigarette and not looking him in the eye.

'The blues?' There's a little desk under a big window, framed by sheer curtains that flutter in a cool breeze. Relena sits with him there, and she holds his hand in her little one, smiling at him. The tightness in his stomach is disappearing altogether. 'He's such a serious person,' Relena says. 'He's like you, that way.'

'He's different now. I think.' He doesn't want to talk about Quatre, not right now. 'How are the Preventers working out? Are they in your way? There haven't been incidents?'

'No incidents. At least none they've told me about. They don't tell me as much as you did, and no matter how I try to wheedle it out of them, they're immune.' She quirks a pale eyebrow. 'It's almost too quiet. Since you left and Pargan retired, no-one indulges me.'

'They should keep you informed.' Heero learnt the wisdom of keeping Relena in the loop a long time ago. The less Relena knows, the more likely she is to do something stupid. Well, not stupid-- she's not fifteen anymore. But she is stubborn, and in a way it's her job to take risks. It's her power, to be the one who risks anything for peace. 'I'll tell them. They will listen to me.'

'Would you? It's tiresome.' Impulsively she kisses his hand. 'But I don't want to talk about me. I want to hear all about you. What's Paris like? I've never been there. Is it beautiful?'

'It rains there a lot. And there are a lot of people there. And sometimes it smells when the sewers back up. And the coffee isn't very good.' Relena is trying to keep her smile, and Heero finally lets his show. She smacks him on the knee. 'It's beautiful,' he says. 'The other things are true, but they don't matter. Mostly it's quiet. I've never been anywhere just to be quiet there. I like it. Clara--'

'Quatre's sister?'

'Yes. She says, if you are lucky enough to live in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, Paris will go with you, because Paris is a moveable feast.'

'She sounds wonderful. I'd love to meet her. Imagine leaving your whole life behind and just going off on an adventure in Paris! Although of course then her brother came to live with her. She just sounds dashing. Sometimes I wish I could do something like that.'

'You did,' Heero says. 'When you became Relena Peacecraft, instead of Relena Dorlian.'

Something goes soft in her eyes. 'I love you, Heero,' she says simply. 'You make me feel like a better person than I am.' She squeezes his hand, and stands. 'Are you hungry? I asked Cook to make all your favourites.'

He's smiled more in the last fifteen minutes than in the last fifteen years. 'Those buns with lingonberries?'

'Top of the menu.'

He stands, and very carefully touches the top of her head with his lips. 'I'm glad to be back,' he says.

Nighttime finds them in the spot they used to spend hours in: the rooftop nook where they can see the stars for miles, and the ocean just at the lip of the horizon, and all of Sanq spread out between. They steal quilts from the laundry closet and Cook makes them chocolates with real whipped cream, and their sagging old sofa is still there, two cushions just wide enough for them both to bundle up in. The last time they'd sat together here, Heero had told her he had to leave. But now, somehow, there's no pressure in it, no tension between them. They can talk, friends only and not bodyguard to princess. And Heero surprises himself by talking the most, by telling her things he wasn't even sure he was thinking. And somehow the things he wasn't sure about seem mostly to be about Quatre.

Relena listens gravely to all of it, sipping her steaming chocolate as he speaks, twirling a long strand of her hair over her finger. When Heero tells her about Marcus and the funeral, her eyes go wide, and then they go thoughtful.

'What?' Heero asks her.

'He's seeing Madame Duchesne every day?'

'He says he just drops in, but sometimes it's for hours.'

'But you understand why.'

'He thinks she's his mother.' Relena looks surprised, and Heero waves that off. 'Not literally. But he said before that he only came to Paris to try and find pieces of his mother. He says he's missing something and he doesn't know what. He thinks he's found it, with Madame Duchesne.'

'He's told you that? That he feels that way?'

'No,' Heero admits. His cup is nearly empty, and what's left is cold. He puts it carefully on the brick below. 'But he must do. Why else would he go there?'

'You're probably right.' Relena pulls her feet up on the couch, to cover them with her blanket. 'And a chance to be a good son. To be what her own son can't be.'

'Clara says Marcus is a loser.'

'I know a dozen boys like that. It's not really their fault. No-one's ever challenged them to be anything. They're not responsible for anything and probably never will be-- all they really have to do in life is produce an heir so the money has somewhere else to go.'

'That's what Quatre says, too. He says money is a spider web.'

'But you don't agree.'

'No,' he says bluntly. 'You and Quatre made something out of yourselves. It's a choice. Marcus is useless because he chooses to be useless. He's unpleasant and ignorant and a bigot. Those are choices, too.'

'You don't know how lucky you are, Heero.' Relena is very serious, suddenly. Heero looks at her in surprise, and she looks at her chocolate, troubled and quiet now. 'Purpose is an amazing thing,' she says softly. 'Transformative. But if you've never had a purpose, it's not an easy thing to find. I had never felt it, before I met you. I thought I never would. But then you fell into my life-- literally. That day at the beach, the first time I saw you, that changed my life. You can't know how you appeared to me, that day. Suddenly the whole future I'd been dreading-- become someone's wife, someone's mother, and then just... fade out, without ever actually _doing_ anything-- suddenly there were whole new worlds for me. If I hadn't met you first, Heero, I don't think I would have known I could be Relena Peacecraft. Yes, purpose is a choice. But it's possible to not know that choice even exists, unless you're lucky enough to witness it.'

It would be easier if he could be in love with Relena. Maybe not all that easy-- one day she will be someone's wife, someone's mother, and he doesn't think he wants to be that someone. But easier in that he understands her, and she makes him understand himself. She makes him feel better about himself, makes him want to be better in his own skin. Quatre--

Does things Heero doesn't understand, and doesn't explain himself. Doesn't say what he's feeling. Changes himself, and changes back, and then finds new directions altogether, before Heero can catch up. He knows Quatre cares for him, he thinks that Quatre loves him, but Quatre doesn't say it, won't say it. Tries to protect him, when Heero is perfectly capable of protecting himself. Quatre wants to be normal, when Heero realised long ago that he will never be. Quatre thinks he's living in the moment when it's obvious all he's doing is rebelling against anything and everything. Quatre-- is in process, and Heero isn't. And isn't sure he wants to be with someone who is, and might be for a long time.

'All right,' Relena says then. 'I've an idea for us both. Put out your hand. Wait--' She puts her hand to her mouth, and--

'Did you just spit?' Heero demands, a little appalled.

'Hilde taught me this. It seals the deal. You do it too.'

Hilde has obviously been spending too much time with Duo. Heero reluctantly spits-- conservatively-- into his palm, and holds it out. Relena clasps his hand firmly.

'I solemnly swear that I will only choose things which will serve both the greater good and my own happiness,' she says. 'And when the two are at crossroads, I won't necessarily choose my own happiness last. And-- if neither of us have found anyone by the time we're... um--'

'Thirty,' Heero fills in. If fifty seems old, thirty is still far enough away to be hazy. He changes his mind. 'Twenty-five?'

'Thirty,' Relena decides. 'If neither of us have found anyone by the time we're thirty, we'll fork it in and give it a go.'

Heero bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. 'Deal.'

'Deal.' They shake, and then Relena wipes her hand on her quilt. 'It's set, then.'

'Relena.' It comes from the same half-serious impulse that led to their sticky agreement, but the second his lips touch hers, it's different. Solemn. A promise.

Relena sighs, and settles against him. He wraps his arm around her, and they watch the night together.

 

**

 

It's raining, and there are a lot of people there, and the sewers are obviously backing up again, when he lands in Paris. But it feels marginally like a homecoming, nonetheless.

The apartment smells like burnt toast when he unlocks the door, and it's noticeably smoky. Quatre, Heero surmises, is cooking. He doesn't announce himself, but leaves his bag at the bottom of the stairs, and climbs up.

Clara sees him first, and greets him as if he's never been gone. 'Heero, sweetling,' she implores him tragically, 'my glass has gone empty. Surely you can see your way to doing something about that?'

Quatre has turned. His oven mitts are charred, and there are streaks of sweat gluing his hair to his cheeks, but the expression on his face is the worst. He hadn't believed Heero was coming back.

'Red or white?' Heero asks Clara, and coughs to cover the rusty knot in his throat. He pulls a pinot noir from the rack above the cabinets, and digs out the corkscrew from the drawer. He pops the cork for her, and pours her a full glass, while she smiles up at him.

'Thank you, love.' She sips, and sighs. 'How was Sanq and its beautiful Princess?'

'Good.' He has the bottle in hand, so he pours two more glasses, and slides one to the countertop for Quatre. 'But I'm glad to be back. Winter comes early there.' He swallows from his own glass, and nods at the stove. 'What are you making?'

'Baked Belgian fries.' Quatre moves slowly, then gives himself a shake. 'They're done. Overdone. Do you want mayonnaise or salad crème?'

'Neither,' Heero says. 'We don't need to adopt all French customs.' He reaches over Quatre's shoulder and pulls the white vinegar from the pantry shelf. 'This.'

'All right.' The fries stick to the pan, and tear when Quatre pulls at them with the spatula. Heero peels one off the foil, and eats it dry. Quatre stares at him, eyes tight and mouth hesitating.

'I'll just... give you two a bit of space,' Clara says, and makes a dignified walk of the five steps out of the kitchen. She takes the wine with her.

Quatre uses her escape to pull himself together. Heero lets him. 'We have malted vinegar,' he says, 'somewhere. If you'd rather.'

'White is fine.' He takes one of the stools at the table, and swallows more of his wine. 'Relena says to tell you she hopes you're well.'

'That's good of her. Your visit went well?'

'Yes. But she's busy. Maybe a few days less, next time.' He gets a plate of crisped fries, and douses them with vinegar. 'They're not bad,' he says. 'You're getting better.'

Quatre lets out a bark of laughter. 'Let's not get too excited about that.' He sits on the other stool, and plants his chin on his fist. 'You're lighter,' he says. 'Happier than when you left.'

'I liked being with Relena as just her friend.'

'Just her friend,' Quatre repeats.

'Yes.' He eats another fry, and decides he likes it. 'How is Madame Duchesne?'

'Back on L4.' Heero is surprised, and eats another fry to hide it. Quatre gives him a hard smile. 'Marcus is going into treatment, though they're putting out that it's a graduate programme. Madame preferred to be with friends and family rather than stuck here in Paris all winter without her son.'

'Are you angry with me?'

'Angry,' Quatre says. 'Angry. No.'

'Then stop acting like you are.'

'Now I'm angry.'

'You're not.' Heero wets his lips with his wine, and sits back with the glass. 'I would like for us to talk. About our situation.'

Quatre cocks his head. Then he mimics Heero's pose-- Quatre's version of a poker face. Quatre sips his wine, and murmurs, 'I believe you said once that words weren't necessary.'

'Not then. Maybe more necessary now.' And that's as far as he can get without nerves. He can't read Quatre's face. 'What do you think?'

'She asked me to go with her,' Quatre says. 'Madame Duchesne. Back to L4. She asked-- and it finally occurred to me I was taking advantage of a lonely and vulnerable woman.'

'So you said no.'

'I considered it,' Quatre says, and finally slumps. 'I considered it. The purpose it would serve. I couldn't come up with anything good.'

Purpose. Heero thinks Quatre might be more like Relena than he is like Heero. 'To both be less lonely,' he says. 'That would be a good thing.'

'I think,' Quatre says, 'that eighteen is maybe too old to get back the mother you never had. And that Marcus might like to have his mother's undivided attention at a time like this. And that anyway-- I'd rather be less lonely with you.'

Very like Relena. Fearless. Head-on into confrontation.

'There's a flat in La Villette in the 19th arrondissement that I thought we could look at tomorrow,' Heero tells him. 'Forty-eight square metres. One bedroom. It's on the seventh floor and there's no lift, but but it's only fourteen hundred a month. Relena helped me find it on the internet.'

'Relena—' Quatre blows out a big breath. 'I thought you went there to declare undying love to her.'

'You've noticed that I sleep with men. With you.'

'With you, I never take anything for a certainty.'

That's funny. 'You smoke too much,' he says. 'And you do drink too much coffee. And you're a terrible cook.'

'Have I got any good points?' Quatre retorts tartly.

'Yes,' Heero replies. 'Everything else. You are who you are. And I like you the way you are.'

Quatre sucks in his cheeks. 'La Villette,' is all he says.

'La Villette.'

' _Le prix d'Amour c'est seulement Amour,_ ' Quatre says.

' _Il faut aimer si l'on veut être aimé._ ' Quatre raises his eyebrows as Heero completes the quote. 'What?' Heero asks. 'I can read.'

A grin breaks over Quatre's face. ' _Je t'aime, mon lapin._ '

'Rabbit?'

Quatre laughs, deep from the belly at first, then softer, until it ends on a sigh. He takes Heero's hand. 'Clara,' he calls. 'Stop listening at doors. Your fries are getting cold.'

'It's not like they can get any worse,' she mutters from around the corner.

Heero lifts one for a bite. 'She's right,' he says, and Quatre laughs again.

**Author's Note:**

> _Translation notes: The price of love is only love... one must love if one desires to be loved. (Honore d'Urfe)_


End file.
